


Courage In The Sparks

by hannanotmontana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, can be read as Sherlock/John fluff if you're inclined, relationship is not the main focus of the fic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannanotmontana/pseuds/hannanotmontana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sparks from the cigarette now burn up in the bright morning air but they’re still courageous. Entering the world and dying instantly. Sherlock can’t yet enter the world of 221B. So he takes courage in the sparks."<br/>Sherlock is back after two years and finds his London and its inhabitants changed. He needs to learn it - them - anew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courage In The Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> This the collaboration between ludricous and me (hanna-notmontana) (tumblr!)!  
> There are five drawings accompanying this story, and they are absolutely stunning!
> 
> I couldn't have asked for a better partner. It's all love here ;)  
> Without further ado - enjoy our collaboration!  
> Love,  
> Hanna

**Sherlock Prelude  
**

 The air smells like rain, the real rain, the right rain, for the first time in two years. He might not be sentimental about things, but he can appreciate beauty – and the air, filled with the scent of London rain, and London smog, and just _London_ is definitely beautiful.  
  
He likes to imagine that it’s the same air that went through John Watson’s nose; down his airway, into his lungs, and then back up again. They’re breathing the same air again and that is the true thing of beauty.  
  
Now, Sherlock Holmes contributes to the beautiful air with a mouthful of smoke and his cigarette lights up in the surreal twilight of dawn, high over the rooftops of London he takes another drag. Sparks fly, and fade after seconds.  
  
But for one brave moment they fly in the semi-darkness, unaware of their surroundings.  
  
So different to Sherlock who always takes in everything even now when he is deeply in thoughts.  
  
The sparks are courageous, not even questioning their short life in the velvet air, just flying before they die.  
  
Flying then dying. Well, Sherlock managed half of that. (Not so much flying, but falling, but Sherlock is no philosopher.)  
  
The sparks are courageous. Sherlock frowns when he recalls that thought. It’s so unlike him. Thinking of non-animated things as courageous. Hell, thinking about any trivial thing. And yet here he stands, on a roof, watching his city come to life and not doing anything. Allowing himself, just for a moment, to be sentimental, to appreciate just being able to stand and look and breathe and watch sparks.  
  
He could already be halfway across London, could already stand in front of the black door with the brass numbers on it. 221B. He could already be skipping up the stairs (of course he still has his key).  
  
And yet here he stands, on a roof, watching his city come to life, not doing anything.  
  
He’s not afraid, he tells himself. Fear would be illogical. He has nothing to be afraid of.

 Finally he becomes annoyed with himself and takes a deep breath. He needs to do something. Go somewhere. (Not there, though. Not yet. He can’t. Yet.)  
  
One last drag of the cigarette then he flicks it away. Watches a cluster of sparks burst, glow and fade in the diffuse twilight. The sparks are courageous.  
  
He takes courage in the sparks.

 

* * *

 

**Molly**

She’s too early but that’s nothing out of order, really. She was always early _Before_ , and it just sort of… stuck with her. Of course there is no logical reason to be early _now_ (well, there wasn’t _Before_ , either, but when has logic ever applied to her when it came to _him_?) but she still is.  
  
She’s used to coming in early because sure enough, there would be an email waiting for her, asking her about new inhabitants of the drawers in the morgue, or asking (ordering) her to run samples. Not anymore though. The emails, texts, and sticky notes have stopped two years ago.  
  
They have stopped when Sherlock Holmes threw himself off the rooftop of St. Bart’s. They have stopped when she filed out the death certificate. They have stopped when Sherlock sucked in his first breath, lying on a stretcher in the morgue and wiping the blood off his face. They have stopped when he walked out of the hospital and never returned.  
  
Molly Hooper still comes in early.

 As usual her eyes linger on the calendar on the wall for just a moment. She’s long over her crush on Sherlock but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss him. She does count the days (although she stopped crossing them off about a year and a half ago). It’s almost two years.  
  
She doesn’t know the exact count. John probably does. Certainly does.  
  
Shaking her head, she puts down her bag and moves to the small kitchenette. Coffee. Coffee to wake up and then Mr. Walker. Died in a car crash, 32 years old, face still… recognizable. Pretty even.  
  
Molly makes a mental note not to think that way in the future. It’s wrong. Probably. Although… looking at a corpse that way is probably better than the way Sherlock did – as a body-part-dispenser.  
  
Right, coffee.  
  
The warm, earthy smell of freshly roasting coffee beans (Sherlock liked them better and Molly brought a bean-to-cup coffee maker which of course had nothing (everything) to do with each other) fills the small room. Mingling with the cool, disinfectant-smelling air and creating the unique scent most people wouldn’t like but that makes Molly feel comfortable.  
  
And then she hears the voice. Low, and familiar. (Pompous too.)  
  
“Black. Two sugars, please.”  
  
Hot liquid spills over the counter, Molly’s hand and lab coat. She freezes, doesn’t feel the burn, then turns. Slowly and unbelieving. There are magical seconds when she thinks that maybe she imagined it, that when she had finished the movement there will be nothing (no-one) there.  
  
But there is nothing magical about him (except there is, and always will be) and then Molly stares into grey-green-blue eyes, heart thumping madly in her chest, and finally, finally she feels something – a burning sensation. Oh yes. Coffee.  
  
She thinks it’s one of those moments in the films where time stands still after a couple that has been separated for a long time finally reunites (expect they’re not a couple and she’s over the crush – but it’s him, it’s really him-) and no one dares to speak so as not to break the moment.  
  
But of course Sherlock ruins it. “No coffee then. You’ve run out. Empty bean container in the sink and no new packages waiting to refill it.”  
  
Molly tries to breathe because she has the distinct feeling she’ll end up on her own slab if she doesn’t. “Apply lukewarm water to your burn.”  
  
She doesn’t, just dabs at it with a tea towel, and stares at Sherlock. He is still breath-taking, which is the first thing she notices. She can’t help it. But the longer she looks, the more she sees. Behind the facade of marble beauty, untouchable, his skin is waxy instead of marble. His eyes lay deep in their sockets, cheekbones jutting out even more than usual. His hair falls into his eyes, just a tad too long to look taken care of. His shirt, a pale dove-grey one, for the first time in history, probably _fits_ instead of looking like a button is going to pop off any second. Which means that he’s lost weight.

 And then Molly realizes she’s staring at Sherlock who’s watching her, one hand stuffed into his coat pocket, the other holding a lit, almost burnt down fag between long fingers, and she gets angry at herself for not being angry at Sherlock and staring instead. She has a right to be angry at him. They’ve come to a sort of understanding, before he jumped. She didn’t think he would, but he did. He understood her and she thinks (wonders, hopes) that she understood him a bit.  
  
They are friends, she thinks. And she helped him, because he needed her. And that’s why she’s allowed to be angry.  
  
“You’re back!” Okay, plus points for the exclamation mark, but it sounds less angry and more relieved. Concerned.  
  
“Sound observation. I am back, and I need you again.” He says it unashamed, almost demanding. As if it’s the most natural thing to do. For him, it probably is.  
  
Well. Molly tries not to show what the words do to her (heart beating faster again, because even if she’s not crushing anymore, she likes to be needed by him). She’s unsuccessful of course.  
  
Crossing her arms, she tries to regain posture, which is hard seeing as she’s with her back to the counter and a 6 foot genius looming in front of her. Not too close (he doesn’t like that) but close enough for her to smell him (and he smells wrong – not like he did when he was still alive – uh, of course he was never dead, but- Molly rambles, even in her thoughts).

 “You don’t look good. You need to see a doctor.”

 John is a doctor. The thought is plain on both their minds, and for the first time, Molly can read Sherlock. No, not for the first time.  
  
 _(You can see me.  – I don’t count.)_

 He ignores her, as usual. “I need you to tell me about John.”  
  
She knows this might easily be the most genuine he’s spoken to anyone in a long time, despite making it sound flat, ordinary, and bossy. That doesn’t mean she will give in though.  
  
Molly takes a steadying breath. She can do it, she has done so before. Sherlock doesn’t know what’s before his eyes sometimes (or, more likely, he knows and chooses to ignore it), and maybe it’s her duty to gently show him. She will never refuse him help, she knows she’s not strong enough to do it if he pleads, but she can try to do what’s best.  
  
Another steadying breath, then she says one word. “No.”

 

 

It’s satisfying to watch the miniscule narrowing of Sherlock’s pupils and a new wave of self-assurance floods through her veins. She has spent a long time thinking she wasn’t strong enough to refuse, to do anything really, and thinking she didn’t count.  
  
But Sherlock is _here_. He hasn’t seen John. He’s here with her.  
 _  
Molly counts. She always has._  
  
“Your eyeliner is crooked and the trousers you’re wearing are unflattering for your backside but you didn’t notice when you got dressed in a hurry this morning, most likely because you were staying at your new boyfriend’s flat and it takes longer to get here from there.” Sherlock tells her, finally, after seconds (minutes, hours) of silence, and spins around, intent on marching out.  
  
“Wait.”  
  
He does, probably just as surprised as Molly, but they’re both covering it up very good.  
  
She picks up the almost empty cup of coffee, makes two quick steps and plucks the fag from Sherlock’s fingers, dumping it into the mug. It fizzes weakly before floating in the black liquid, slowly soaking in it. “Smoking kills.”  
  
“Then I’m at just the place to be,” he replies snarkily. “Except I have a very bad record at staying dead when I’m here.” He wants to sound harsh but he’s missing drive. Molly smiles a small smile and moves back to the counter to set down the mug. Behind her, the detective’s clothes rustle as he starts moving again.  
  
“Sherlock?” she calls out, proud how strong her voice sounds. He stops at the door, coat (the same old coat, so he managed to get out the blood, well, that’s nice for him-) softly swaying around him. “I’m glad you’re back. It’s for good, right?”  
  
He just reaches into his pocket and gets out a pack of cigarettes, before pushing open the door. Just before the door closes behind him again, she hears him call: “Get new coffee. Whole beans, fair trade and South American.”  
  
Molly remains leaning against the counter for a long time after that. Then, she gets out a pocket mirror and fixes her eyeliner, smiling to herself a bit when she changes the coffee-stained lab coat for a clean one. It goes over her bottom and the slightly bad fitting pair of trousers doesn’t even show.  
  
Her face clouds for a moment when she asks herself if she should call someone. John.  
  
But it doesn’t feel right.  
  
So instead she goes down to Mr. Walker’s drawer, pulls him out and starts with the Y-cut on his chest. “Smoking kills – good one, Hooper.” she says to herself, and giggles.  
  
Then she remembers Mr. Walker has been smashed by a car.

 No giggling, maybe.

 

* * *

 

**Sherlock Interlude**

 Molly has grown, and that is very inconvenient. Sherlock doesn’t like it one bit.  
  
He inhales, smoke going down into his lungs and tarring them as nicotine fills his body. Sparks die mid-air.  
  
If he is being honest with himself, he had rather hoped he could charm Molly into telling him what he wants to (needs to) know, but these plans blew over when she stood her man. Despite the inconvenience, he catches himself smiling fondly (just a miniscule movement of the left corner of his lips but it’s the first smile since he’s back in his beloved London).  
  
He can’t say he always knew Molly would turn out to be his partner in crime, his assistant for his last great magic trick. He was wrong, which doesn’t happen often, and she turned out to be more. To count. Moriarty was a fool for not seeing it either and that thought somewhat soothes the sting of Sherlock’s own incompetence.  
  
Right now though he’s about as fond of Molly as one would be fond of a cold and he scoffs. Wasted time. Time he could spend somewhere else. (221B. John.)  
  
He doesn’t dwell on these thoughts as he leaves St. Bart’s. His feet carry him through the city automatically on the way to someone who probably is more amicable to help him with John. Something to do with sentiment and doing things that are good for Sherlock.  
  
If he had allowed Mycroft to update him on John’s whereabouts, he could skip all of this. But he can’t just go to him. He needs to know first. (He lacks courage.) (He doesn’t. He’s Sherlock Holmes.)  
  
Sparks from the cigarette now burn up in the bright morning air but they’re still courageous. Entering the world and dying instantly. Sherlock can’t yet enter the world of 221B.  
  
So he takes courage in the sparks.

 

* * *

 

**Lestrade**

 “You comin’?” one of the younger Sergeants asks, poking is head through Greg Lestrade’s office door. He’s his nephew, and that’s about the only reason for why he talks to him.  
  
“Nah. Got to finish this.” Greg doesn’t like to go out with the other Yarders for lunch anymore. He liked it, two years ago. Liked people around, liked bonding with his team over food.  
  
Now, the people on his team are strangers (except young Andy) and, although they act professional around him, he knows what they talk about behind his back. It’s all to do with two years ago.  
  
So no, Greg doesn’t want to go out for lunch, and Andy shrugs and leaves.  
  
Burglaries, anti-social behaviour – that’s his life now. No homicides, no kidnappings. (No Sherlock Holmes.) He still has his DI badge and he still has a team (not the old one, though – they all were separated, assigned to new teams). But after the investigation involving Sherlock Holmes, after the accusations against him, after facing court, after still defending Sherlock’s work (not himself, not the fact that letting Sherlock in on investigations was highly illegal – Greg knows that and takes full responsibility for that. Although he did it with good intentions which of course doesn’t justify it legally) his life is not like it was before.  
  
About a year after Sherlock’s funeral, his big brother, whom Greg has never met in person but knows is looming over London like a less-Italian-more-posh Godfather, has cleared Sherlock’s name. The public knows of the genius’ credit. They know about Moriarty. But that doesn’t mean the Met forgets the shame DI Gregory Lestrade brought to them.  
  
He tries not to care and gets out the bagel he bought on his way to work this morning, intent on eating it while finishing some paperwork. His eyes fall on a case file which yet needs to be solved. And that’s when he hears the voice.

 “If you checked on the ground of the suspect’s bins, you would most likely find two spray cans as well as a screwdriver with residues of the car’s metallic paint and finger prints that will prove that the younger son, who already as an ASBO, did this and not the older son whom you currently have in arrest.”

 Greg’s heart skips a beat. He sits frozen in his chair, head bent down and still over the paperwork, for a small eternity.  
  
“Don’t be obtuse. I’m real and you’re not hearing things. Dumb doesn’t suit you, Lestrade.”

 And now Greg looks up and sure enough Sherlock is standing in a corner of his office. All long coat, cheekbones, piercing eyes and a cigarette between his fingers, looking for all the world as if him standing there is the most natural thing to happen on a rainy Tuesday midday. Looking not-dead.

 Greg gets up as Sherlock strides over, casually flicking ash off his cigarette.  
  
“Why did you start smoking again?” the Detective Inspector asks, because he needs to say something so as to hear a reply and know he’s not actually dreaming this, nodded off on his files or something. It’s the first thing that comes to his mind.  
  
“Bored,” Sherlock drawls, looking annoyed at Greg’s question. “And nicotine patches are surprisingly hard to come by in an Amsterdam brothel. Harder than cigarettes, anyway.”  
  
Greg mouths ‘ _What?!_ ’, unable to catch on with what Sherlock (not dead, alive Sherlock!) is talking about.  
  
The genius sighs. “I wasn’t there for the prostitutes, obviously. Seriously, do you even use your brain or is it just moulding between your ears?”

 “YOU. PRICK.” Greg grinds out between bared teeth, and then, before he can think rationally, he flings himself over his desk and his fist connects with Sherlock’s nose. Sending the taller man’s head flying to the side and a few drops of blood raining down on the floor.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t make a single sound, only stares at Greg in something close to resembling shock (if he’d actually allow his face to show anything) but then Greg already thrusts a tissue in his hands and Sherlock dabs at his nose gingerly.  
  
“Is it broken?” Greg asks, softer than before and anger gone. He already regrets having punched Sherlock, he has sworn himself to look out for the younger man when he first found him, high as a kite, and kept an eye on him, but that doesn’t mean he has no right to let out his feelings after the idiot shows up in his office after two years of absence – hell, death! – and simply starts doing what got them in the whole mess the first place – Greg Lestrade’s work. Also, being a brat and insulting him. But that’s a given with Sherlock.  
  
“No,” Sherlock replies miffed, and for a while, they just stare at each other. Sherlock tending to his nose, and Greg trying to comprehend the fact that Sherlock is, very obviously, not dead. Neither of them sits down, although there really is no reason to keep standing.

 Finally, Sherlock makes another attempt at conversation, obviously more careful in his choice of words seeing as the result of his first few sentences granted him a bleeding nose. “What are you still doing here? I thought they might sack you.”

 “Kept my job, obviously. Well, they kept me.”  
  
“So as not to lower the trust of the public in the police system more,” Sherlock concludes.  
  
Greg makes a face. “Glad you can talk about it so lightly. It’s not your arse they tore apart.”  
  
“No, the public was obviously very supportive of me and my ‘suicide’.” Sherlock replies snarkily, dragging on his cigarette.

 “At least your name got cleared.” Greg mumbles, prodding at his bagel that still sits uneaten on his desk. “I was being charged for Misconduct in Public Office, Concealing an Arrestable Offense and a few other things – and then, one day, it was just over. I never had a chance of winning, I knew that. I mean, I would’ve told them. That I only wanted the best- don’t gimme that look-“ he adds when Sherlock frowns in distaste at Greg’s nobility of ideals, “-but then- everything was dropped, and I was told to return to work on Monday 7 am sharp. I don’t get to do the big stuff anymore though. And the team was split up but at least we all still have work. Guess I have to thank your brother for that.” He shrugs. “I know I should be thankful for this-“ he gestures vaguely to his desk with the paperwork for the last anti-social-behaviour ‘case’ (the incident doesn’t even deserve that title, really!), “-but it’s… just not it.”

 Sherlock, for the first time, looks like he understands him. Well, he would. He needed (still needs) cases more than air. He lights another cigarette and smokes silently, the sparks at the tip lighting up with every drag. Greg doesn’t bother to make him stop. (If the sprinklers react, Sherlock will look like a drowned rat, which would be rather satisfying.)

 “So, you’re back for good?” the DI then asks, having no intention to enter a touchy-heart-to-heart-field with Sherlock (not that he even knows if Sherlock can do that but still – better not taking any risks).  
  
“Of course.”

 “What did you do while you were away and, you know, not dead, then?”  
  
Sherlock shrugs, slowly pacing the room. “This and that. Killed the snipers trained on you, Mrs. Hudson and John, took apart Moriarty’s web-“  
  
“What the fuck?!” Greg really needs some water so he can spit it out in a double take. “What snipers? When? When Moriarty made this whole mess?”

“Yes, don’t be dull. Why else would I throw myself off a hospital? Moriarty threatened to kill you if I didn’t jump. So I did.” Sherlock shrugs again, a motion he has repeated twice already, as if all of the past two years is not a big deal. Greg just does his best to keep his mouth closed.  
  
“If you’re done with interrupting, I will continue.” Sherlock waits a moment, then nods to himself. “I took apart Moriarty’s web – quite impressively, I might add, but you’ve never shown much understanding of the way I work and you know the outcome so I will spare you the details – and then I came back. I talked to Molly, mainly because she made me promise I did so when she helped me fake my death-“

 For the second time Greg interrupts him, but this time he can’t help but let his mouth fall open, gaping at the younger man. “Molly – as in Molly Hooper? Helped you fake your death? She knew?!”  
  
“Do keep up, of course she did! But she failed to provide information on John so I came here.” The detective, rather annoyed now, crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares at Greg impatiently, before uncrossing them again, dragging at his cigarette.

 There are a lot of things Greg wants to say. A lot of them contain insults because he’s angry (and also relieved, which, ironically, makes him want to insult Sherlock even more), and another punch for… for just showing up after two years, making Greg doubt himself every other night and questioning himself if he should’ve, could’ve, reacted differently. If he should’ve seen through Moriarty’s lies.  
  
Other things he wants to say are too sentimental and he knows Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate hearing them (they’ve never been speaking-about-emotions-close anyway, and Greg would rather keep it that way) and the third sort of things he wants to say consist of calling Sherlock dumb, because he didn’t go and see John first and for himself, instead of questioning Molly and now him about his former best friend.  
  
So Greg settles for an altogether different fourth reaction, grins smugly, and says: “Sorry, Sherlock. Not my division.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, his face hardens, and then his lower lip pushes forward the slightest bit. _He is pouting._  
  
“Go and see him for yourself.” Greg grins even broader, sits down and leans back in his chair, and Sherlock, with one last look, huffs petulantly and turns around. On his way to the door, he shoves a hand into his coat pocket and gets out the pack of cigarettes.

When he’s almost out, Greg calls out one last time. “Oi, Sherlock?”  
  
The detective looks back over his shoulder and doesn’t have anymore time to react when the bagel from Greg’s table hits him in the face. “You’re an idiot for not going to John first. And stop smoking already, for God’s sake!”  
  
Sherlock furiously stomps out of the room, not bothering the least bit to be discreet or look cryptic.  
  
Only when he can’t see the mop of curls anymore Greg allows himself to grief for his abused bagel on the ground, but finds solace in the memory of Sherlock’s astounded face.

 

* * *

 

**Anderson/Sally**

They have been waiting in line for ten minutes to get some sandwiches and coffee, when the bored look on Sergeant Sally Donovan’s face gives way to a look of complete disbelief. She knows she’s gaping, and that people that might be watching her will probably think she’s out of her mind – but right now that probably is exactly what’s going on.  
  
Because through the shop window she just saw Sherlock bloody Holmes walk by. The same Sherlock Holmes she’s been fighting with for over five years, the same Sherlock Holmes who jumped down the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.  
  
And he just… _sashayed_ past the shop, stupid coat billowing behind him and seemed to be muttering angrily to no one in particular, a cigarette between the index and middle finger of his left, glove-covered hand. (And what the fuck is wrong with his nose?!)  
  
Suddenly not hungry anymore, she grabs a startled Anderson who's waiting in line before her by the sleeve and drags him out of the store. Naturally he struggles against her (eyes still fixed on the sandwiches at the bar with a longing look), but she has learned over the years to just ignore him and explain the situation. Which is what she does next in a hushed voice, arguing with him, trying to make him believe that yes, she saw the dead detective walking right past their window and that no, she’s not crazy.

 Sherlock Holmes is alive and back in London.

 The Forensic scientist only believes her though when they catch sight of Holmes again. (Anderson’s not stupid, for God’s sake he has a Ph.D., he’s just so incredibly thick! – but frankly, Sally wouldn’t believe anyone telling her a seemingly dead guy walked past her either so she can’t really blame her colleague.)  
  
Holmes doesn’t hide, just strides through the streets, smoking, looking determined and yet without any particular goal. Anderson’s pale face whitens even more but neither he nor Sally can come up with an explanation so they do what any police officer confronted with a strange situation would do – (not request back-up, no. They do what any _film_ police officer would do) they attempt a stake out.

 Attempt because while Holmes seems to walk in public unabashedly again, as if he’s _not_ been dead, as if that’s what normal people do, he suddenly disappears, shortly after they’ve crossed St. James’s Park.  
  
Mere seconds before Anderson had been gloating. “It’s not even hard to follow him around! He doesn’t even notice us – not that big of an observer after a-“  
  
And now Holmes is just gone.  
  
Sally huffs in annoyance, scanning the area where he walked right until a moment ago (crossing onto The Mall from a small path leading out of St. James’s Park, the iron fence, trees and the few people), and then both Met employees jump when the familiar low voice abruptly speaks up behind them.

 "Anderson you really are the brilliant impression of an idiot.”

 “You’re- how… what?!” Anderson squeaks, not very helpful, while Sally takes to staring at the self-proclaimed Consulting Detective in a mixture of disbelief and shock.

 “Eloquent as always I see.” the tall man remarks with a sneer towards the Forensic scientist and then turns to look at Sally, clearly deciding she’s the less incompetent of the two of them. Sally tries to keep down the anger at that realisation – apparently not-dead Sherlock Holmes is just as much of an arse as he was years ago. “Why are you two following me?”

 Sally ignores an exclamation of “NOT DEAD!” coming from Anderson and crosses her arms. “Well, _Genius,_ what would you do if you saw someone who’s supposed to be dead? Why are you not, by the way?”  
  
Completely ignoring the first part of her words, Holmes rolls his eyes, gets out a new cigarette (he’s smoking? Ah, always the addict) and lights it before descending to answer. “Don’t be dull; did you really think I was going to kill myself because of a ruined reputation? As always, you’ve been missing all of the major pieces of information – which by now you should be enlightened about according to Lestrade – and since you were too ignorant to see the truth behind Moriarty’s scheme, I don’t expect you to understand the mechanics of how I survived.”  
  
He looks like a marble statue, completely expressionless, cold, and hard in the grey light of the rainy noon.  
  
Sally hates him even more than usual. And she has had about enough of the snotty, childish, patronizing behaviour.  
  
“A lot of people gave me shit about going to the Chief Inspector, but you know what genius?” Her eyes have a dangerous glint and her firmly crossed arms make her look more intimidating than they should, especially since she’s about a head shorter than the detective. (At least her hair is not tied back today – its mass makes up for what she lacks in height.) “I don’t regret it! I put up with you and your stuck-up I’m-better-than-you-lot attitude for a long time and Anderson struggled with the Forensics team because of your simple disregard of any rule or regulation concerning a crime scene – because the Detective Inspector believed in you. Because you got him – us – results. But then people were being harmed and you still flounced about, only looking for the next mystery to solve, for the next thing to keep you entertained, while _kids_ were suffering.”  
  
Her look challenges him to say something to her and for once in his life, Holmes seems smart enough to just stay silent. He watches her from narrowed eyes. (As does Anderson, although he looks more surprised – at her going up like that, at her sort of defending him – and of course still at Sherlock Holmes being not dead.)  
  
“I risked my career, Anderson’s, and DI Lestrade’s by going to the Chief Superintendent but did you, just once, ever think of the consequences if we hadn’t done that? _People might have died._ And so I gave every single criminal we ever arrested because of you the possibility to appeal against his penalty and conviction, because the evidence was tampered by _you_ in every single case and just because you were doing your freakish number and looking for a case to get off on!”

 For a short while Holmes is silent. Dragging on his cigarette and blowing smoke up towards the grey sky. Finally, his weird eyes settle on Sally’s face again.  
  
“I understand.”

 “You… do?” Sally is astounded.

 “You do?” Anderson is shocked.

 “What are you, a forensic parrot?” Sherlock says snidely and Anderson, taken aback, turns to Sally to complain.

 

 

 

 

 “He was dead – he doesn’t get to say stuff like that!” He starts rambling, all the stress and confusion getting him even more worked up. “Am I the only sane person here? You talk to him like he’s an old friend you met on the street and he says he’s talked to the DI- and are we all forgetting _that he was dead_?!”  
  
 _“Shut up Anderson!”_  
  
An awkward pause. Sally and Sherlock stare at each other, while Anderson (thankfully actually shutting up) gapes at them. His babbling, half coherent injections while Sally and Sherlock talked have apparently been enough to get the two _agreeing_ on one thing – the wish for Anderson to, well, belt up.

 “That is new,” Sherlock calmly observers, eyes not leaving Sally. The silence then continues for another minute before Sally clears her throat, straightens her back and puts what she hopes is a determined look on her face.  
  
“It is. So… maybe we should try and… keep this up. I won’t agree with you all the time-“ she hastily adds when Holmes starts grinning like a shark, “-but I suppose you will be back at crime scenes and we might as well make this easier for both of us. You know I don’t like it, but if I have to live with you…” She purposefully doesn’t finish the sentence, knowing how much the detective hates that sort of thing, but to her endless surprise he doesn’t comment on it and merely makes a sour face before slowly, grudgingly, nodding once.  
  
“I agree.” He takes another drag on his cigarette (wait, how many cigarettes has he been smoking since she discovered him through the shop window? Four? Five? That can’t be healthy – where was Watson to tell him to stop?!) and then adds, sounding a bit miffed: “However it still won’t change the fact that you’re both dull and Anderson is an idiot.”

 “I am not-“ the scientist starts protesting but they simply ignore him. (Sally has to admit that Holmes’ approach to Anderson is starting to feel sort of… good.)  
  
“Well, I suppose not even death can turn you into a nice guy. Still twat personified, huh, Frea-, uh, Holmes?”  
  
And Holmes sends her an impressive glare at that but she’s rather busy with getting used to the taste of saying his name. (God forbid if she tried to say Sherlo- urgh. No. Definitely not happening.) (Oh crap, now she has to snort thinking of his name and he can totally see it-)  
  
He cocks an eyebrow. “Really?”  
  
“Trying to make an effort here Holmes.” she tries to play it cool and actually manages to make her face look sincere. (She does mean it, she thinks. Probably. Yes, most likely. It would be good to not be… awful with each other, she supposes.)  
  
And because he’s the mad genius he boastfully says he is, the detective observes these thoughts too and finally lowers his head in acceptance. “… Sally.” It sounds awkward, and if he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes he would probably look the part too (although Sally prides herself because she thinks she sees his facial expression slip for a moment – unused to calling her by her first name, unused to not being insensitive or spiteful.)

 Anderson still stands at the sideline, awkwardly, and the situation gets even more awkward when Sherlock turns to address him, obviously fighting an immense intern struggle finally nodding to say, “Anderson.”

 What then follows is the creepiest thing both Sally and Anderson have ever seen, because Sherlock tries to smile at his long-time pain-in-the-arse and Anderson looks like he wants to run away as far as possible, while Sherlock, obviously realizing this is not good quickly drops the smile again.  
  
“Ok! No smiling! _Ever._ ” Sally hastily says. “Unless we want the grass dying around as and birds dropping dead from the sky.”

 Holmes is not going to acknowledge that she’s right (he already agreed with her once today and frankly, she’d be surprised if that happened again within the next two years) but simply stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, indicating a somewhat peaceful retreat.

 “Your break is over in ten minutes. You want to get on your way back,” he says, all business again and she mirrors his action after pulling her coat tighter around her.  
  
“See you around then… Holmes. Come on, Anderson.”  
  
Anderson, however, does not move and Sally cringes inwardly because she remembers the paranoia of her colleague, the therapy sessions because he didn’t believe Sherlock was dead, and waited for him to suddenly pop up again. And now, when he _just_ started to get over it, of course the detective had to do just that. Months of therapy in vain. Urgh.  
  
To startle the Forensic scientist from his trance, she gives Holmes an once-over, and smirks: “Who got your nose, by the way?”  
  
The sour face he makes sets off angelic choirs in her head and he finally descends to mutter: “Lestrade.”  
  
“Good on him,” Sally replies, and with one last wink, turns around, making her leave with a still disturbed Anderson. Sally looks straight ahead while Anderson glances back over his shoulder every other second although Holmes disappeared almost instantly.  
  
“Don’t behave so stupid.” Sally chastises him. Sometimes he _is_ very trying to be around.  
  
“I don’t! I just can’t believe you’re not more confused about how he can just walk back here and go back to normal!”  
  
“Back to normal? With Holmes around?” She laughs drily. “I think the normal days are over. Now, let’s get back to the Yard and then talk to the DI. I want back on his team. Someone has to keep an eye on the F- Holmes.”  
  
“Yeah, you keep an eye on him and he keeps eyes in the microwave,” Anderson grumbles but obediently follows her back to the Yard.

 

* * *

 

**Mycroft**

 “Sir?”  
  
The menacing man in the shadows looks up from his desk, eyeing his subordinate. (Of course he’s not literally in the shadows, seeing as that would be bad for his eyes with all the paper work he has to do. Wouldn’t do the British Government any good if he ruined his eyes just for the sake of high drama.)  
  
“There has been a break-in at your office at the Diogenes Club.” The agent hesitates.  
  
“And?”  
  
“Well, sir… the housebreaker, he- uhm, he played a song called _‘Let’s Get Loud’_ all the way on his way to your office where he has locked himself. There’s a team almost there, ready to remove him, but we couldn’t make the music stop yet. He seems to have put it on loop.”  
  
The mightiest man in Britain doesn’t sigh, but his face momentarily looks exhausted. It is the look he only gets when one person is involved – not that anyone knows that. “Call off the team. I’ll deal with it myself. Get the car ready.”  
  
The agent looks unsure now but he has learned that he is not to question his boss.  
  
“And send in Anthea.”  
  
“Yes sir.” He leaves, shutting the door behind him.  
  
Mycroft Holmes finally allows himself to sigh. _So he is back._  
  
They lost sight of his brother about a week ago, in a brothel in Amsterdam, and if Mycroft hadn’t already worried (constantly), he would’ve started to worry by now. Momentarily, he’s impressed by his younger brother’s skills of avoiding to be found until now although Mycroft had the efforts in finding him doubled and tripled.  
  
However, it had become clear a long time ago that if Sherlock didn’t want to be found, no one would find him. So while Mycroft is only mildly surprised that Sherlock managed to escape him all day (he can’t be in London much longer, not with the methods of travelling he usually chooses and the things he still had to do (people he had to eliminate) when Mycroft lost him in Amsterdam), he is more surprised at what Sherlock is doing now.  
  
Namely, coming to him. Well, sort of. More like being a petulant, attention-seeking child trying to trigger a reaction. But still. Of _him._

 The logical thing every mother would do is not to give in, not to encourage that sort of behaviour, but there are two problems with that – one, Mycroft is not their mother (despite everything Sherlock likes to make remarks about) and two, there’s Jennifer Lopez blasting through the sanctuary silence of the Diogenes Club and Mycroft is very fond of his membership there.  
  
(And three, he hasn’t seen his brother in two years, and _(if_ he felt which he doesn’t but _if_ he did) he still feels…  guilty (not guilty, guilty is too strong; he’s the Iceman, he doesn’t do guilt – it was all for a greater goal) about the whole Moriarty affair.)  
  
Mycroft longs for a cigarette.  
  
Instead of a magical appearing nicotine supplier though Anthea steps in and he instructs her to get ready the things Sherlock will obviously need (demand). She’s told to be on stand-by, ready to attend to the younger Holmes’ needs, and she takes her orders with the same stoic not-looking-up-from-her-Blackberry attitude Mycroft has come to appreciate over the years.  
  
Then he gathers his things and leaves with his PA still tapping away on her mobile device, without doubt organizing everything they (she) will need to attend to Sherlock’s needs.  
  
Upon arriving at the dark building that houses the Diogenes Club, the dreadful blasting of music has thankfully stopped and Mycroft walks the carpeted hallways alone in deathlike silence.  
  
He doesn’t have to make it to his hidden office because when he enters the sitting room with the newspapers and bookshelves lining the walls, he sees him immediately.  
  
The semi-darkness in the room is only broken by the dim light of dusk coming through the heavy curtains of the window Sherlock is standing next to. The butt of a cigarette lights up, casting an orange glow on a gaunt face with high cheekbones.  
  
Any sane person would have turned on the lights, but a thing the brothers have in common is a shared preference of a somewhat dramatic appearance (although they will call it a simple need to remain untouchable, unseizable – and besides, John has as of yet been the only one to call either of them out on acting like out of a Scarface film – everyone else is too impressed by (scared of) them). There is no need to draw any more attention to them, so Mycroft makes his way through the room – being here often enough to know his way around and to not give Sherlock the satisfaction of bumping into any furniture.  
  
“I didn’t know of your fondness of Latin pop.”  
  
“Hips don’t lie, Mycroft.”  
  
Sherlock almost smirks and Mycroft almost responds but, at the last moment, settles on arching one eyebrow.  
  
Smoke wells up silver in the dim light and sparks fly. Both brothers watch them.  
  
“Good to know you spend your time useful, googling music.”  
  
“We don’t all have a PA doing things for us you know.” Sherlock remarks calmly. Then he gets out the cigarettes and offers one to Mycroft without a word. With just a moment of hesitation, the older Holmes takes it.  
  
“High tar.”  
  
Both Holmes remember a quite similar conversation.  
  
 _“This is low tar.” – “Well, you barely knew her.”_  
  
“Obviously,” Sherlock acknowledges and lights his brother’s cigarette. They smoke in silence.  
  
He thinks this is the most peaceful they’ve been in a long time. Possibly ever. Also, there is the ever-present fact that Sherlock came here. Accepts… assistance.  
  
 _Something has to be wrong_. Looking back, Sherlock would rather have performed eye-surgery on himself than coming to Mycroft for help.  
  
Even the cover-up, the faking of his death has not been Sherlock coming to him for help. It had been him, offering it to Sherlock. (Because of guilt.) (Not because of guilt.)  
  
 _Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes._

 He eyes his brother. Sherlock has seen better days, certainly. A haircut, a shower and new clothes can cover up much of it. Mycroft is especially aware of how hollow Sherlock’s face is, cheekbones and the fine nose jutting out more than usual. (He’s painfully aware of how he looks next to his younger brother – but alas, it’s no good dwelling on these thoughts.)  
  
“I need access to all of the material you have on John.”  
  
Ah, this is what this is about. _Caring._  
  
“Dr. Watson was very…. adamant in his request not to be surveyed any longer after he learned of my part in the Moriarty debacle.”

 Sherlock just scoffs as Mycroft smokes. “As if you ever could keep your hands out of a pie.” He smirks and Mycroft, again, uses all the zen energy inside to stay calm. He, like always, will not let Sherlock get a rise out of him.  
  
“Anthea will tend to your needs. And then you should stop procrastinating. While I do not encourage your affection for John Watson – or Latin pop, for that matter – it is below your dignity to scrabble about instead of doing things straightforward.”  
  
“What do you know about being straightforward?” Sherlock bites back. Ah, so he has hit a nerve there.  
  
“Enough that if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were scared.”  
  
“Sod off.”  
  
Now Mycroft smirks openly. This – this is right. This is how it’s supposed to be. Him and Sherlock, never, not ever, agreeing. Working each other up. It’s better than this silent, pliant Sherlock who comes to ask for (comes to accept) help.  
  
“You really should stop smoking before you go and see the good doctor, by the way. I doubt he will be fond of-“ you, “-it.”  
  
“I hope you choke on cake.”  
  
“It is _so good_ to have you back.”  
  
And with that, he leaves the younger Holmes who still glowers at him long after he’s gone. Mycroft knows it.

 He sends Anthea in, with a mental note to have her receive some extra payment this month for the inconvenience she will without doubt have putting up with Sherlock. She too seems to think of the same thing and gives her employer a smirk, telling him “I’ll manage.” before she disappears into the building, light of her phone illuminating her face.

 This night, London is home to two Holmeses again for the first time in two years.

 When Mycroft leaves for his office the next morning, Anthea is already waiting in the car as always. He’s secretly glad about that, because that means she hasn’t handed in her notice. It’s always hard to find good employees these days.  
  
“He had some fish, steak, pasta and toast. Showered and changed into a new suit before napping for two hours. Then he left, demanding-“ Anthea smirks at that, “to be left alone.” Without a pause, she continues, as if Sherlock’s demeanour has not impressed her (it most likely hasn’t). “He spent the night wandering London, drawing closer circles around Baker Street.” She’s not the least bothered that she disobeyed Sherlock’s demand – just like Mycroft expected her to do. She really is one in a million.  
  
He is also very content with himself – even after two years of distance, absence, he can still read his little brother. Sherlock was and is predictable to him.  
  
“I hope he wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.” Mycroft finally says in an attempt to convey his gratitude (knowing fully well that Sherlock was a hell of an inconvenience and Anthea is quite obviously going to play it down because Mycroft is her boss and she had to do her job and also because Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother).  
  
Her answer of “I know my way around Holmeses.” renders him speechless for a moment though, and while he still considers if he should admire her courage or dismiss her (probably neither because courage is, just like braveness, another word for stupidity, _but_ he still needs her to do her job), the car comes to a halt.  
  
Anthea moves into action as always, holding the door open for her boss but when his phone starts ringing, he motions for her to go on and takes the call.  
  
A smooth discussion in Korean and two nuclear bombs less, Mycroft finally arrives at his office just as his phone dings with a message from Sherlock. (Of course he has bought a new phone instead of taking the one Anthea could have provided him with because he knew Mycroft would have it bugged.)  
  
 **“Don’t fire your PA, she’s not as tedious as the other monkeys you employ. – S”**

 Very wary, Mycroft looks up from his phone and narrows his eyes at his assistant. She looks normal… except she’s smiling a bit. A different smile from the “Good-morning-you’re-my-boss-and-also-super-influential”-smile. “Did my brother make any… let’s say, _unusual_ requests?”

 She shakes her head no and, still watching her until he’s past her, he enters his office.  
  
“He did leave a thank you note though, Sir.”  
  
That puts Mycroft on alert within nanoseconds. He raises his eyebrows as he slowly approaches his desk, on which a large white, rectangular box with a lid is sitting on. At least it’s not ticking.  
  
He gives his PA a pointed look and, still smiling this rather unsettling almost _amused_ smile, she moves around her boss and takes the lid off.

 

 

  
Upon seeing the contents of the box, Mycroft Holmes wrinkles his nose and scowls in distaste as he glares at the rich, dark chocolate cake inside.  
  
A sweet scent wafts from it, the black chocolate icing shining in the crisp morning light, and the gold icing drawn with capable hands spells out:

 

HA YOU’RE STILL FAT

-SH

 

* * *

 

**Sherlock Interlude  
**

 It’s his second morning in the city and there are a few similarities to the first one.

 He is still breathing the same air as John Watson. In fact, every cell in his body is now thoroughly soaked with the essence of London and John-air. The way it should be, really.

 And yet – he hasn’t been where he needs to (wants to) be. (Doesn’t want to be.)  
  
He’s torn, like Jekyll and Hyde, or a protagonist in a Kafka book. (He knows about literature, despite what John – or others - might think!) He wants one thing and another. He wants to be there, but he can’t.  
  
Molly, Lestrade, Sally (and Anderson) and Mycroft have shown him that nothing is the same. Of course he didn’t expect it to be, but the change is… (frightening) unsettling.  
  
A new cigarette gives his fingers something to do and the smoke in his lungs, for the first time since he is back, is not helping. Sherlock looks down, at the thin glowing object in his hands, and taps the butt with his thumb. Sparks fly.

 The sparks are courageous.

 Even now the sparks have more power than he does. They go out in the world, while he hides. Hides in plain sight, but still – hides. He can see 221 Baker Street from here.  
  
Another similarity to yesterday morning. He’s afraid. (No, not afraid. Still, no reason to be afraid. He has faced every possible reaction already – from disbelief and genuine happiness, to anger and confusion. Also, punching. Nothing to be afraid of.)

 He takes a drag of his cigarette. Smoke scratches the back of his throat. Maybe he needs to stop. (John will approve.)  
  
(John.)  
  
He needs to go back to Baker Street. Now.  
  
However… he needs to be smart about it. Get allies there. Have someone to cover his back.  
  
(And he misses her.)  
  
She will still love him, he is sure of that. A loyal soul, bound to him by what they’ve been through together. There will be no punching, he is sure of it.

 He takes courage in the sparks.  
  
Then he moves towards Baker Street. 221 Baker Street.

 

* * *

 

  **Mrs. Hudson**

 On closer inspection, it looks like it is slowly getting too cold for most of the potted plants and she makes a mental note to check in on 221B later in the day to see if the good Doctor can be persuaded to carry them inside and down into 221C (It’s not like anyone is going to live there anyway, so she can turn it into a hibernation room for her beloved crane’s bills.)

 She’d just have to think for a solution regarding the rather massive oleander because there is no way Dr. Watson will be able to carry that inside with his leg.  
  
Maybe if she asks Ma-

 A noise in the back makes her look up, but she can’t see anything, so she shrugs and carries on to water the petunias. Martha Hudson is not someone easily startled by noise, considering whom she had as a tenant for two years.

 That is, until she hears a massive crash, the tumbling sound of her bins falling over and a very familiar deep voice cursing in a way that makes her tut at the language before she can stop herself.  
  
And then she turns and faces a pile of flailing detective, lying atop her bins and two garbage bags in his long coat, a few leaves sticking out of his much-too-long hair. (Is that a new trend? Because frankly, this… homeless-look is rather unappealing – the boy has such pretty hair, but-)  
  
“Oh, _Sherlock_! Not on my bins again!”

 “I _just_ had a shower, for God’s sake –“ not-dead, homeless-haired Sherlock Holmes mutters petulantly before he looks up, meets her eyes and says in an accusatory voice: “You changed the position of your bins!” The glare he directs at her leaves her completely unfazed though because right then the fact that Sherlock Holmes is back (and lying on top of her garbage bins) sinks in and she lets out a choked cry before bringing one hand to her heart, the other to her mouth, and hurries over.

 When Sherlock has disentangled himself from the offensive bins, she opens her arms wide and (ignoring the smell of bin-y detective) hugs him tightly. He reciprocates gently.  
  
That is, until she pokes a finger into his concave belly and he snorts indignantly.  
  
“Oh my, Sherlock, you’re only skin and bones!” She shakes her head disapprovingly before she ushers him towards the backdoor and inside 221A (the petunias can wait). He is obedient, wipes his feet before stepping in and Mrs. Hudson follows him with his eyes, blinking away a tear. Now is a happy time – no need for tears now!  
  
(There are more important matters at hand – namely, a haircut.)  
  
She watches how he moves around, how his eyes take in the kitchen and quickly fall on the laptop on her counter where Doctor Watson’s blog is open and, in another tab, Facebook.  
  
“Facebook, really, Mrs. Hudson? I suppose you have Twitter and Google Plus now as well?”  
  
“You have to be on the line if you want to be up to date nowadays, Sherlock!” she replies, completely serious and then sniffs. “Now, why do you smell like smoke?”

 “Online, Mrs. Hudson. And I do not.” he adds, not meeting her eyes, seemingly transfixed on her laptop (the blog).  
  
“Don’t lie to me, young man!” she chides, but her tone is fond. “You go and have a shower-“ she continues, ignoring the indignant look, “-and then you will let me cut your hair. You look homeless, Sherlock! That’s no way to look, now that you are back!” And, ignoring more death glares and protests, she grabs his coat until he slides out and, muttering all the way, disappears in her bathroom. Seconds later, a pile of clothes is dumped in front of the door and she picks them up, calling a standard _“Just this one time, dear – not your housekeeper!”_ through the door before she hears the shower spring to life. (And oh, it’s so achingly familiar and now she can’t hold back a single tear of happiness running down her cheek. Well, he doesn’t see it so it’s okay. Never dealt well with emotions, the boy.)

 A clean (and shriek-y because she unceremoniously comes into the bathroom when he finishes his shower, a pair of scissors in her hands and a determined look on her face, completely unfazed by the stark-naked detective scrambling for a towel) Sherlock does his best to look angry while an enormous amount of cut hair drops into the sink.  
  
“You could’ve waited until I was dressed again!”  
  
“Nothing I haven’t seen before, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson simply says, “Besides, your clothes are still drying and I wouldn’t have heard the end of it if you got cut hair into the collar of your shirt. Sit still!” she adds when the detective starts to wriggle under her grip on his head.

(He’s usually not that bashful, at least not with other people around, but with her he is like a child who starts to grow up and feels ashamed in front of their parents. Silly boy...)

 After he looks presentable to her content again, she allows him to get dressed and by the time he emerges from the bathroom (looking more or less the same as he did when she saw him walk out – well, being walked out by the police – two years ago) she has a pile of food ready.  
  
And she knows he doesn’t like the fuss but, because he loves her to bits, he sits down and eats.

 While she is fattening him up again, she makes sure he knows how she feels about the smoking. “Sherlock, it’s not good for you – and what does Doctor Watson say about it?!”

 When he doesn’t answer to that and only glances towards the half-way closed laptop where the blog is still open, she gives him an intense look but stays quiet for the time being.  
  
He, in turn, takes to watching her from narrowed eyes until she has enough of the calculating look. “Oh, Sherlock, please stop watching me like I’m about to faint! I’m not very surprised you’re here! I always thought you might come back.”  
  
“You- did?” he looks at her carefully.

 “Yes! A lot of people didn’t believe you were dead and there are the wildest theories about how you did it! It’s all on the line.” This time he doesn’t correct her. “What those kids are up to nowadays, you wouldn’t believe it…” She tuts a bit but the smile doesn’t leave her face. “You know, Sherlock, I always hoped they were right. The thought didn’t cross my mind first, with what had happened to you, but then I read all these theories and you have always been such a remarkable young man. And I thought to myself: if anyone could have tricked all of us, it would’ve been you. Certainly looks like you, staging your own death! You’ve always been so dramatic!”

 Now she even chuckles (and notices how Sherlock tries to look insulted but fails completely). “Some people sounded very loony, and I wouldn’t even dare to believe these things, but when your brother made sure everyone knew that you were not a fake – no sane person believes the tabloids anyway, but it was rather nice of him to clear your name, wasn’t it? – anyway, then I thought to myself that maybe one day you could come back.”

When she finishes, she gives him a reassuring look and he almost looks stunned (in general, he just looks indifferent, but she has become rather adapt at reading her boy’s face).

 “It was essential that my death was believable.” he tells her, and then a story about a consulting criminal and three snipers fills the small kitchen while Mrs. Hudson listens with big eyes. When Sherlock ends, she does tear up a bit and kisses him on the cheek which earns her a fond smile and a joking, “Don’t snivel, Mrs. Hudson.”  
  
“You silly boy, the things you do for me! And the nice Detective Inspector and Doctor Watson. You have a heart of gold!” (And if the amused smile of her long-lost Sherlock is of any indication, she knows that even though he frequently denies the existence of such a thing, the fact that she thinks he has a golden heart fills him with joy.)

 After a moment of silence, he says, “I’m not sure John still thinks so.”  
  
Now, anyone else might have fallen for that but she has dealt with the young man for far too long, has seen him manipulate people, to know what he’s up to. (It doesn’t mean she can’t understand it, though.) So instead of going for the bait, she shakes her head.

“No, Sherlock. Nice try, but I won’t tattle about the Doctor! You’ll need to talk to him yourself! It’s a shame as it is that you haven’t gone seen him first thing! Really, where are your manners?”  
  
Sherlock grunts non-committal, obviously having his feather’s ruffled that she didn’t fall for his (admittedly cheap) trick of getting her to tell him about John. However, she loves him dearly and knows him well enough to realize that despite him acting tough, the concern is edged deeply inside his mind.  
  
She gets up, moves over, and puts an arm around his shoulder while his eyes once again wander to the laptop before skimming the room, seemingly nonchalant.  
  
“It’s okay to be afraid-“  
  
“I’m not _afraid._ ” he interrupts her, making a face and stiffening his posture. His fingers move to the pocket of his coat (which he has put on again, despite them sitting in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen… well, boys and their toys!), and he fiddles there for a moment before his head whips around and up, eyes drilling into those of his landlady. “You confiscated my cigarettes?!”  
  
“Shush!” she replies, her hand never leaving his shoulder and a smile tugging at the corners of her lips as his lower lip pushes itself forward sulkily. “You don’t want to go up to the Doctor and smell like smoke.”  
  
“So John still lives upstairs.”  
  
“Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t already figure that out.” she chides him good-naturedly. Then, her voice darkens a bit. “He didn’t come back at first, but with time it got… easier. Not better, but easier. And eventually, it got better. Especially now that-“ she stops herself and of course Sherlock has noticed her slip-up.

 “Now that what? Do tell, Mrs. Hudson, I don’t have time to worm information out of you!”  
  
She gives him a clip around the ear for that but rests her hand back on his shoulder. “You can’t expect everything to stay the same. You’ve been gone for two years, Sherlock. Things have changed. But you should know that you’ll always be welcome here and I’m sure things will work out just fine. So stop procrastinating and go talk to Doctor Watson.”

 Sherlock looks annoyed. “This has to be some sort of conspiracy.” he announces but the look he gives her is not entirely hateful and with one last glance towards the laptop, he gets up. “I suppose I must be off then.”  
  
“Oh, I believe he doesn’t finish work until 5 so you still have plenty of time to sneak around the backyards of our neighbours for a bit longer.” Mrs. Hudson tells him, smiling, and he mirrors her smile. In an afterthought, she quickly adds: “But do use the front door later! I don’t want any of this sneaking business in my house today anymore!”

 “Don’t make me sound like one of those horribly wrong depicted spies from the films you and John made me watch.” the lanky detective protests, but readily wraps his scarf around his neck again. Upon stepping towards the back door, he is stopped by Mrs. Hudson who gives him a raised eyebrow and firmly (and with surprising strength considering her age – oh she’s not even _that_ old!) stirs him towards her front door.  
  
“You can use the front door, like regular visitors.”

 She sees how Sherlock’s face scrunches up when she calls him ‘regular’ but even if he might be a special little snowflake, he can still use the front door. And that’s the end of the discussion. (Mrs. Hudson doesn’t care what he’s been up to for the last two years but if he’s back in her house, he’s going to follow some basic rules again!)  
  
Out in the hallway, she watches how Sherlock takes in the old familiar surroundings once more and smiles when she sees the fondness with which he looks around.  
  
His last glance is directed towards the stairs leading up to 221B, before he turns, pulling himself to full height and rearranging his coat, turning up the collar.  
  
(Mrs. Hudson is reminded of a peacock and does her best not to grin.)  
  
“I expect the bin debacle will not come up again in further conversations. _Ever._ ” His voice is low enough to make, say, big Americans, shiver and his eyes are narrowed to slits but all Mrs. Hudson does is give him a pat on the bum and successfully stirs him towards the black front door.  
  
With one last look into her eyes, he yanks the door open and stomps outside with as much dignity as he has left, watched by a fondly smiling Mrs. Hudson who has her arms wrapped around herself and, for the first time in two years, feels like the house is complete again.

 

* * *

 

  **Sherlock Interlude 4**

The bliss lasts mere seconds though and Sherlock’s indignant stomp comes to a halt when he stops in his tracks in the threshold. Because just inches in front of him, the key to the door in his hands, stands John Watson.

 

 

  
**  
**

 The stunned silence between the two of them lasts another second or two in which they are staring at each other, faces completely blank, and then Sherlock takes a step back and slams the door shut again, glaring over his shoulder at Mrs. Hudson who’s still watching him.  
  
“Oops,” is all she says and, still smiling, makes her way back into her flat, humming under her breath.

 He can’t do this. He is not ready. (He needs to run.)

 (John.) John. _John.  
  
_ He can leave through Mrs. Hudson’s back door. She won’t approve but when has he ever cared about approval?  
  
(Often, always. Looking at John, looking at Mrs. Hudson _. John.)_

 Coming back was a stupid idea. John learned to cope, Mrs. Hudson said so. There’s a long blonde hair on his shoulder. He has someone he spends time with. Relationship?  
  
Oh, of course. Stupid.

 New girlfriend. (Now that he’s not interfering anymore.)  
  
John still keeps the blog. Sherlock could just go and, from a safe distance (far away from Baker Street) look up John’s blog. He should’ve thought of that. (Why didn’t he?)

 (John.)  
  
He’s not afraid. There’s no reason to be afraid. He just needs a cigarette. Yes, leave through Mrs. Hudson’s back door, pick up the fags (See the sparks fly. Courage.)  
  
His hands flutter. His breath hitches. His eyes are closed. He thinks.

 Then his eyes fly open. The ring. There’s a ring. On John’s hand. Left hand. The blonde hair. A bag with groceries, too much for one person. Oh. _Oh._

 _  
_He desperately wants his cigarettes. (Wants the courage.) (Doesn’t need courage, not afraid.)  
  
Sherlock realizes he has deduced John during the few milliseconds he saw him. And yet he has no idea how John looks like. He suddenly can’t remember John’s face. John’s eyes. John’s smile. John’s frowning face. (John.)  
  
So of course there's only one logical thing to do.  
  
(Courage, even without sparks.)  
  
He opens the door. _John._

 

* * *

 

**John**

It’s been a good day so far. Yesterday’s rain is gone (and with it, the ache in his leg – mostly, anyway). He only had to do a half-day shift, and now he’s even done the shopping which means Mary will probably cook something amazing tonight – they can’t have take-away again.

 So, good day. Up until about half a second ago, when he stared into the eyes he thought he’d never see again. The eyes that have been looking up to the sky, broken, unseeing, surrounded by blood the last time he saw them. The all-seeing, deducing, bright – and very panicked – eyes of Sherlock Holmes. His best friend.

 John reminds himself to breathe.

 Well, that did go better before. Less choky.  
  
He’s not sure what’s worse – the fact that Sherlock Holmes just banged the bloody front door of the house _he_ lives in into his face _or_ the fact that Sherlock Holmes is standing right behind said closed door.

 (Or that maybe he’s just hallucinating – wouldn’t be the first time after all.)

 Wait, how long has he been standing on his door-step already? Oh, just about five seconds. Funny, feels much longer. Like a small eternity.

He should just open the door. (But what if Sherlock’s not there anymore? Scratch that, what if Sherlock _is_ still there?)

 And the breathing thing still doesn’t work right.  
  
Right. So. Opening the door. Trying not to hyperventilate. (You invaded Afghanistan, John Watson. You can open a sodding door.) (No. Yes.)  
  
Just when he raises his hand to unlock the black door again though, it opens, slower this time, to reveal a very-alive, not-hallucination Sherlock. He wears a blank face, carefully crafted, how John very well knows, and his eyes take in John in a familiar swoop.  
  
While Sherlock does his deduction, completely silent, John simply stares back. Just because he can.  
  
Sherlock looks pale, although not sickly so. His hair is orderly and his coat impeccable. Cared for. (Mrs. Hudson?) The first sign that he’s not just popped out of the country for a short holiday, but has been dead (or, well, apparently not dead) for two years is his shirt, which fits. No straining buttons. He lost weight.  
  
This, strangely, fills John with content – wherever Sherlock has been, no one was there to look out for him the way John did. Does. Did. (And that thought is probably not-good but John fails to feel regret for it.)  
  
There is more he notices about his (not dead!) friend but now Sherlock speaks up, for the first time directly to him and, God, how he’s missed that voice!  
  
“Hello, John.”  
  
John is almost disappointed that there’s no deduction, no biting comment as a greeting, but the sincerity, the seriousness in Sherlock’s voice makes more than up for it. So does the sound of his name on that tongue.  
  
“You’re not dead,” is all John manages, and this, _this_ triggers a very familiar expression from Sherlock – annoyance. (It’s a soothing sight for John’s eyes and his heart pounds faster in his chest.)  
  
“Please refrain from impersonating Anderson.”

 John wants to laugh, wants to smile, wants to grin – and then realizes what these words imply. And Sherlock obviously realizes that he has realized it and looks taken aback.

 “You… saw Anderson already?” Calm. Perfectly calm.

 “John, I-“  
  
Sod this. “ _You_ \- are you telling me you’re back and you went to see _Anderson_ before me?! _I can’t fucking believe you_ -“ Anger. Anger is a good emotion. Helps with the choky breathing and the insecurity about hallucinations because angry John can poke a finger into Sherlock’s chest (oh God he’s real, he’s really real, he’s warm and standing there-) and yell and gather breath in between.  
  
Sherlock tries to paddle back into safer waters. In a Sherlock-y way. Which means being condescending. “You’re missing information, therefore you cannot make a clear deduction-“  
  
“You shut up right now, you bastard! You come back after _two years_ in which I believed you were _dead_ , and then you turn up in my hallway and you have the audacity to tell me I sound like _Anderson_ , whom you fucking visited before you came to see me? Your _best friend_?!”  
  
And another angry gasp for breath. (No choking, you’re doing great, Watson!)

 “You still consider me your best friend?”  
  
Well, of course that's what the git concentrates on from his whole little speech.  
  
Stay angry, John. Don’t go to the choky place.  “What gave it away?” Make fists. Very effective. “The fact that I had to go to therapy again because I couldn’t handle your _death_? The fact that I’m limping like an old man? Grey hair? Or maybe because I’m still dreaming about how you hit the ground and your blood everywhere? And my fucking last words to you were-”  
  
Ah, here goes the choky place again.

 At least Sherlock looks like he’s been hit across the face. Only for a split second, mind you, but John apparently is still apt enough to read his face.  
  
“I understand you’re angry, John.” he finally says, carefully. “Maybe we should go inside and-“  
  
“Oh no, we’re staying right here so I can kick you out if I don’t like your explanation as to why you’re not dead and let me believe you were for two years.” John quickly interrupts, adapting a firm stance, shoulders squared. (His leg doesn’t even ache the slightest bit and his hand is calm.)  
  
Now the ghost of a grin appears on Sherlock’s face. “For that to work, our positions should be reverse, I believe. Seeing as I am currently the one inside and able to kick you out.”  
  
And John simply starts laughing. And, after a quick judgment from Sherlock’s side, he too, laughs, and his deep rumble echoes in John’s chest even though they’re standing quite a bit apart.  
  
This. This is perfection. John feels like for the first time in two years the world and he are completely in sync again, as if everything has slotted in place.  
  
When Mary entered his life, it had been a ray of sunshine after weeks of darkness. Water in the desert. In many ways, she has probably saved him (just as much as he saved her, after she lost her first husband in the war). And he loves Mary, he really does… but it’s only now, that it feels like the sun truly breaks through the darkness, as if it starts to _rain_ in the desert.

  _Sherlock_ is _back_ , alive, and he’s here. They are laughing together, united. John can breathe freely, between laughter, and Sherlock’s eyes crinkle on the edges, some of the more unruly curls bounce, until they both quiet down again. Fixing each other. Not fixing, looking fond.

 And then Sherlock’s right up in his personal space, and he is in Sherlock’s (and who moved first? Or did they both move at the same time?) and once again he’s reminded of just how much taller Sherlock is because he can bury his face into the familiar Belstaff-clad shoulder. (Almost pokes an eye out too because Sherlock is even bonier than before.)  
  
His arms wrap themselves around his long-missed friend and now John’s full body experiences the real-ness of Sherlock. He can feel him, smell him, hear him. John holds back a tiny sob (because he won’t lose it on the street, and Sherlock’s back and there is absolutely no need for sobbing right now. He doesn’t sob!) and holds Sherlock firmly.

 However, he’s not prepared for what Sherlock does – Sherlock buries his face in his hair and then he’s kissing him on top of his head and okay, now might be a good time to faint. Or say something. (Does he know? What does he know? Oh God, he probably knows? What-)  
  
They stay like that for a moment (an eternity) longer though, until Sherlock tentatively steps back and John catches his eyes easily, asking softly, “Sherlock?”

 “Trying not to sneeze. You’re shampoo was bothering me. It’s for women.” The detective snivels, and decidedly doesn’t meet John’s eyes.  
  
“It’s mine.” a soft voice comes from behind them and they both have the decency to look surprised at a short, blonde woman with grey eyes, wearing jeans and a blouse with the sleeves rolled up. She looks pretty, practical, sweet and so very perfect for John. (That’s what made him notice her, really. Well, that and the fact that she treated him to a pint after bumping into him on the street.)  “Why are you kissing John on the head by the way?” She doesn’t even sound angry. She’s nice. Curious. That’s what John loves. Likes.  
  
And he also loves (likes) her intelligence. Because after another glance at Sherlock, her eyes go wide. “Oh, you’re _him_.”  
  
John waits anxiously, waits for Sherlock to take her apart, waits for Sherlock to do his thing. Like he did with every single one of his former girlfriends. (Mary is not just your girlfriend though.)  
  
But Sherlock only regards her with a neutral look and, a bit indignantly, says: “Not kissing. Sneezing.”  
  
“In my hair?!” John interjects, because he really has no idea what one says when one’s standing on his doorstep with his fiancée and not-quite-dead-best-friend-who-might-have-kissed-and-or-sneezed-on-the-top-of-one’s-head. There should be a manual.

 “Sniffing then.” Sherlock dismisses him while his eyes are still trained on Mary, who, at the same time, extends her hand and says: “Mary Morstan.” Sherlock, to John’s utter surprise, takes it (although he doesn’t offer a name – not that it’s necessary, Mary knows who he his) but just when he is about to say something else (deduction, most likely a deduction), Mary gives John a glance, picks up the shopping and tells them: “I’ll be upstairs. You two get sorted out.” And then she’s gone again.

 One, two-

 “Morstan.”

 Well, that didn’t take long. “Yes. We’re not married.” (Yet.) “It’s her first husband’s.”

 “Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
  
Ah, familiar territory. “Afghanistan.”  
  
“Don’t you want to know how I know?” Sherlock almost cocks his head and then seems to remember that’s below his dignity.

 “Actually, no. I know you did it brilliantly though. Now, care for a little deduction of my own?”  
  
From the way Sherlock’s eyes narrow, John sees he’s interested, and this is so much safer than breathing and not-choking and not-feeling-like-the-world-comes-tumbling-down. “Capstan or Phillip Morris?”

 If Sherlock is surprised, he hides it well. “Morris. Elaborate?”  
  
“Nicotine stains on your fingers, faint smell on your coat. You fiddle with your pocket, which contains a lighter and has the outlines of something small, squared. And there is ash you failed to brush off.” (Also, Mrs. Hudson had the package in the pocket of her cardigan and he saw in the split-second when Sherlock had yanked the door open. He _does_ observe, surprisingly. Even when faced with long-dead friends.)  
  
“The brands?”

 “Because-“ oh. _Oh._

 John was going to give some stupid reason, but he only just now realizes that he _knows_ exactly why these brands. They’re strong. No low tar.  
  
He, John, is not a low-tar-kind of person. He’d go as far and say he’s a 7-%-solution-person for Sherlock. He didn’t relapse though, that’s why he’s got the strongest cigarettes he could get.  
  
“Because they’re the strongest.” And I am important to you and you can’t just fucking say it.

 No, Sherlock apparently can’t say it. He can smile though, his real, brilliant smile, all reserved for John. “Extraordinary. Not bulletproof reasoning, but… quite brilliant for you.”

 “Wow, wherever you've been, you came back infinitely nicer. Whom do I have to thank?” John jokes, and slowly, slowly, the tension leaves his shoulders. Sherlock is still here, not disappearing. He’s back.  
  
“Oh, no one who’s still alive,” Sherlock easily replies.

And then it’s time for his story. On the steps of 221 Baker Street, John is told the story of Sir Boast-A-Lot, the Spider and the Three Assassins.  
  
“… and I went to see Molly, seeing as she made me promise in an exchange for her help-“  
  
John decides to think about how he feels about the involvement of Molly Hooper in the whole scheme later.

 “-and check in on Lestrade, see how he-“ Sherlock bites back something, and John watches in complete wonder the face Sherlock makes when he obviously feels something resembling regret, although it’s fleeting and he gets himself together fairly fast, “-I then ran into Dono- Sally and Anderson, which was completely unnecessary.” He huffs.  
  
(Sally? Since when does he call her Sally?)

 “Anyway, then there was a minor incident with my interfering git of a brother-“  
  
“Jesus, ‘Disturbance at the Diogenes Club’ – I read about it in the paper this morning – that was you, wasn’t it?” John cries out in disbelief, his face battling with showing surprise and amusement at the same time and when Sherlock smirks, he grins back.

 “And Mrs. Hudson? Oh god, tell me you didn’t try and break into my-“ our, “flat.”

 “Fine, I’m not telling you.”

 “Sherlock!”  
  
The detective shifts, although not because he feels ashamed about the B-and-E. John, finally, thinks he understands why Sherlock went to see everyone (before he went to see him). Sherlock didn’t know how they’d (he’d) react. And worse, he was afraid they (he) wouldn’t want him back.  
  
Because despite everything Sherlock says, appreciation, admiration, attention – and yes, friendship – is important to him.

 That’s why John says what he says now. Because no matter how hard it has been for him, it has also been hard for Sherlock (even if the genius himself doesn’t realize the full extent of that). “Hey, Sherlock?”  
  
He looks up, fixes John once more, and John smiles.

 “I’m still a bit miffed that you saw everyone else before me – and I’m going to call Greg and give him a mouthful, you can count on that – but I’m just… really happy you’re back. You know I didn’t mean the, uh, the last words I said to you, at the lab at Bart’s, right? Always regretted them... But yeah, you know you’re still my best friend?”  
  
Of course Sherlock doesn’t sigh in relief, but not-at-all-choky John sees how the tension leaves the younger man. “I believe the same can be said about me.”  
  
 _I’m also sorry for what I said, although it was necessary, obviously, and you’re my best friend too._ John’s brain translates.

“Good. Now that’s settled, how about-“

 A sound from Sherlock’s coat pocket brings the attention of both men to the detective’s phone. Sherlock reads the text message quickly and a grin spreads on his face before he thrusts the screen into John’s face.

 

  **Gossip in the Yard says there’s a murder at the Shard - have a look? If you wreak havoc and traumatize the new team in charge of it, I'll get you a packet as payment - GL**

From the way Sherlock is grinning, John knows his mind’s made up but he can’t help but tease: “Didn’t think you took bribes now?”

Sherlock scoffs at the screen in distaste. "I don’t. Only one packet, though? What am I, homeless?"

John starts giggling at that, and he can’t stop when Sherlock gives him a look from narrowed eyes. "You're still pretty much. Yeah."

The detective’s look is enough to send John over the edge and the giggle turns into laughter while Sherlock obviously tries to murder him with his glare.  
  
(Deep inside, John knows that Sherlock is not homeless, though, and will never be – he’ll always have a home in 221B and… well, the Mary situation will need handling. She’ll understand, though. That’s her greatest asset – she understood, back when John told her about Sherlock. And from her look, she might even understand now.)  
  
“Are you quite done?” Sherlock mutters petulantly, and it’s clear he’s not sure if John is being serious or not but he’s not going to say so, obviously.  
  
One last tease. “You’re asking all the wrong questions. Practice: ‘Got any spare change?’”  
  
Now even Sherlock’s corner of the mouth twitches, and when his phone makes a noise again, he quickly checks it before looking up and drilling his eyes into John’s.  
  
(Oh he knows that look, he knows it and he’s missed it more than anything.)

“Lestrade is not shutting up. So, are you coming?”  
  
And John doesn’t even have to think twice, he really doesn’t. Because he will never let Sherlock run off on his own again. So the answer is very, very simple.

 “God yes.”  
  
And just like that, they’re John and Sherlock again.

* * *

 

 **Sherlock Postlude  
  
** John talks to Lestrade (who showed up to watch the investigating team suffer him), and between glances back to him, they seem fairly comfortable with each other.  
  
(Lestrade mimics throwing something and Sherlock scoffs, remembering the bagel.)  
  
He gets out the lighter from his coat pocket, and flicks it open. Of course he doesn’t have cigarettes anymore (“Cold turkey, Sherlock – no discussion!” John had insisted), but when he ignites it, sparks fly for a short moment.  
  
They live even shorter than the sparks from the cigarettes do, but the small flame flickers against the wind, shielded by his body.  
  
“You’re not planning on setting someone on fire, are you?” John’s voice startles him out of his musings.  
  
And no, he is not (although it’s tempting, because two of the Forensic team – not Anderson, which is at least one relief – are missing all relevant clues). Flicking the lighter off and on one last time, he watches the sparks (courageous, banzai-flying through the air, dying) and then pockets it.  
  
He doesn’t need the sparks anymore.  
  
The sparks are courageous.

But he has John back, and all the courage he needs on top of that.  
  
The sparks are courageous, but _he_ takes courage in John.


End file.
